


The Sweetest Thing There Is

by Westerosi_Zephyr



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ASoIaF, F/M, Fluff, Future Fic, One Shot, Queen Sansa, sansan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 19:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3989146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Westerosi_Zephyr/pseuds/Westerosi_Zephyr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Queen in the North and her sworn shield sneak away to the godswood to be alone.</p><p>Takes place after ADoS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sweetest Thing There Is

Sansa’s movements become lighter, freer, with each step they take further into Winterfell’s godswood. Away from the eyes of all but the solemn heart tree she sheds the guise of the Queen in the North, same as throwing off her white-and-grey winter cloak, too warm on a mild day such as this. Raising her arms high, she spins on her toes with a laugh that near makes Sandor want to do the same.

The godswood, normally so dark, is filled with light, the new green leaves not yet large enough to cover the ground with shadow. Sansa’s hair glints in the sun. “Spring!” She beams, no trace of the morning council’s cares left in her eyes.

Sandor wants to gather her into his arms, envelop those smiling lips with his, to be the reason for this show of happiness. Instead he watches her. Seeing her joy so plain and uncomplicated—for the return of warmth, for pretty blooming wildflowers poking through melting snowbanks, for the travelers who will soon begin venturing down the Kingsroad, bringing company and fresh news—raises a different kind of pleasure in him, an aching swell in his chest.

“That it is, little bird,” he rumbles when he finds his voice.

She whirls upon him, raising an eyebrow in mock reproach. “Is that any way to address your queen?”

When she advances near enough he does gather her up, twining his arms about her waist, bending to kiss her jaw, her pretty nose, her eyelids. Her severe expression softens. “My apologies, your grace,” he murmurs, kissing just beneath her ear. “I took you for someone else. Didn’t recognize that dancing, smiling girl as the fearsome Queen in the North.”

Sansa giggles and pulls away from his searching mouth. “My lady mother used to tell my father to put on his lord’s face when there were serious matters to be dealt with. I suppose I must wear my queen’s face.” There are times when talking of her family makes Sansa look the part of the Queen of Ice, as some rot-for-wits detractors call her, cold and brittle, but today all Sandor detects is a faint wistfulness, quickly replaced by mischievousness. “Queen’s face or no, I _am_ your queen. You would do well to remember that.”

“Maybe an old dog like me needs reminding.”

Sandor sinks onto a white root, pulling his queen, struggling playfully, down with him. He kisses her deeply and feels a shiver pass through her body. Her hands ghost feather-light along his back before clasping more firmly behind his neck. His breath comes in shorter bursts. He’ll never grow used to her response to him, not if he spends every day of a hundred lifetimes just like this.

At length Sansa breaks away, adjusting herself in his lap and smoothing her skirts before resting against his chest, head tucked beneath his chin. They sit, just quiet. Soon enough they will have to return to the castle, where Sansa will have meeting after meeting with her lords and advisors to plan the North’s restoration. But for now they’re alone. No favors to beg, no one to flatter.

“You told me once,” she says, breaking the silence between them, “that killing is the sweetest thing there is.”

He stiffens at this, a bitter memory from another age, out of place amid the sun and steam of the godswood.

“I was wrong, little bird.”

“But did you believe so then?” she presses.

“Then…” Bloody hells, but it pains him to remember the man he was. _The Hound_. He may have abandoned that name on the banks of the Trident, but like or not the Hound’s past is his, as Alayne Stone’s is Sansa’s. “I thought I knew sweetness. Thought the sourest wine was sweet, because it carried me off quickest. Thought the sound of men going to meet the Stranger was sweet, because it meant I was better than all those knights, their ribbons and vows be damned. I thought the sweetest thing would be to kill my brother. But I didn’t know.”

He feels her eyes on his face, but remembering that night he can’t bring himself to meet them. “The things I said… I was cruel to you.”

Slender fingers grip his chin and make him look at her. “Sandor. I have said cruel things, too. I understand. Though I am glad you no longer believe what you said.” She swats his shoulder, unwilling to let him brood. “But now, you must tell me. What _is_ the sweetest thing there is?”

“Hmm.” Sandor runs a hand down Sansa’s spine. “Lemon cakes?”

She wrinkles her nose at his teasing. “Lemon cakes are sweet,” she agrees, pressing her lips against his scars, “but they are tart as well.” She catches his lower lip between her teeth, runs her tongue across it. “No. The sweetest thing.”

Sandor groans into her mouth, tangles his fingers in her hair. Soon they will have to straighten themselves and put on the faces of queen and sworn shield, but they will have other days. Days getting longer as spring yields to summer, then short cold days when winter returns, as it always does, as the Stark words promise. Days upon days will be theirs, never enough and yet more than he imagined in even his most feverish dreams.

“This.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading my first-ever fanfic! I wanted to write something utterly angst-free for Sansa, where she's happy and in control. Your comments are welcome.


End file.
